


The Headless Hunt

by StarlightAsteria



Series: Shorts [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Medieval History, Mythology - Freeform, Originally posted on HPFF, Prose Poem, Sneaky Cameos - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-02
Updated: 2017-08-02
Packaged: 2018-12-10 06:02:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11685561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarlightAsteria/pseuds/StarlightAsteria
Summary: In the gloaming, the Headless Hunt, relentless, ever roaming, awaits -Part Two of my HP Shorts collection, originally posted on HPFF.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to Part Two of this collection, focused on the Headless Hunt. The original prompt (for the HPFF House Cup in 2015) was 'games'. Bonus points to those of you who correctly guess the identities of the three major cameos in this! The Headless Hunt is one of those rather fascinating, if obscure, elements of European medieval mythology (not unique to the HP-verse), with its origins in the Breton myths. 
> 
> As always, enjoy - and this one is best read aloud, if I do say so myself ;)

* * *

 

__

_THE HUNT AWAITS_

 

* * *

 

 

Those who do not know the dark, those who do not know the night, might be frightened, scared completely utterly witless by the sight. But the Lady knows the night, and so is not, and will never be, for she is a ghost, for she has eaten the fruit of the poisonous tree. Her ambition was great in life, and remains great in death, and for that has paid the price, and stolen her breath. 

 

So now she combs the countryside, faithful brother by her side, in a midnight carriage, drawn by the powerful midnight horses’ strides, looking for a way to while away eternity, after being accused and condemned for witchcraft and infidelity. So now she combs the countryside, head tucked securely under her arm, though long dead and gone are those who would bring her harm. She looks for the Headless Hunt, for she seeks to join them, as does her brother, for them the ages do not condemn. 

 

But the Hunt are proud and fickle, and membership is not given for a sickle, poor souls lured by Sir Patrick’s quiet and mournful fiddle. (No greater contrast can be found, dear reader, it must really be said, between his playing and his character, but hush! For there even friends fear to tread, lest his head, decapitated though it may be, swell with conceit.) For as the venerable Sir Patrick leads the Hunt, so all must practice the deceit, else Sir Patrick become more insufferable than he already is, as poor old Nearly Headless Nick can surely attest: the truth, ’tis!

 

Old and deadly ghost Sir Patrick might be, but blind and deaf he most certainly is not, and through ravens and whispers in the night, he’s heard, he’s heard, of others the living forgot. Those the Hunt wants to find will always be found (and honestly, dear reader, with a name like that, is anything else to be expected?) and flush and disheveled with tracker’s fever, the gentleman highwayman draws alongside the carriage, sweeps off his hat and bows from the saddle. “If you’d follow me, my Lord and Lady. The Hunt awaits, and we’d best not dilly-daddle.”

 

Past shadowy, windy, woodland, silent village and silver in the moonlight river he drives them, leads them at a pace like thunder, a dashing helter-skelter, across a land all painted in greens and blacks and flashes of starlight, until at last they come to a grassy knoll upon which there are normally duels to fight. Sir Patrick in the centre stands, proud and tall, snorting, plunging, rearing steed held well in hand, though not, it must be explained, from lack of feed. And all around him are the Hunt, dozens of shadowy forms swathed in the darkness as though wrapped in blackened cloaks, illuminated by torches carried for the night was starless.

 

“My Lords, My Ladies of the Hunt!” Sir Patrick with great animation cries, “We have in our presence, two who are eligible and willing, in all our eyes, to join us for an eternity of gaming and hunting and teasing and frolicking. You will be expected of course, to be present at all meets and engage in a spot of bantering. All the conditions have been here laid down, with no need to sign your soul to the devil or anything distasteful of the sort. For we are civilised, not ghastly old ghouls!”

 

And so the Lady Anne and the Lord George agree, and the cry sounds, “Mount up, mount up, for the moon is high, mount up, and gather the hounds!”

 

Sir Patrick then, with a flourish, says, “Care to join us later on as well for a spot of head polo? For as I believe the young these days say, YOLO.”  

 

* * *

 

 


	2. Ride Out! Ride Out!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in a land of green and black and silver, for hopes that shall remain forever unrealised -
> 
> (dear reader, you must understand - enjoyment, atonement!)

* * *

 

 

_RIDE OUT! RIDE OUT!_

 

* * *

 

 

When the Hunt ride out under stars shining, named and unnamed, shadowed and radiant, and flaming unashamed, their horses' ears flicking back and forth in this half-light that makes trees into indistinct, imaginary monsters that sway with the night wind, alive yet extinct. The sound of steel on gravel is enough of a crunch for them to sit up, that bit more alert in the saddle, intent on winning the cup, eyes scanning a world of green and black and silver for hopes that will remain forever unrealised. They breathe cold adrenaline that fires their souls, a pale mockery of life civilised.

 

_When they ride out under stars burning cold in winter, in this eerie land of green and black and silver, the cry goes up: “Ride out! Ride out!”_

_(For, dear reader, it must be understood, there is life to flout.)_

 

When they ride out under a moon - a silent white guardian, too bright to stare at, treading a path worn with half-circle tracks, clutching both mallet and silk hat, through black and silver pines in conversations overheard but not understood with the Night Wind, then out, out onto a green field darkened and dappled by shadows playing a game of their own, and assembled and bridled, they feel their horses coil and spring into warm, full-blooded ghostly life beneath them, half-rearing, cantering to a sudden halt, suddenly alert for strife.

 

_When they ride out under stars flaming in distant existence, in this strange land of green and black and silver, the chant goes up: “Ride out! Ride out!”_

_(For, dear reader, it must be explained, there is heaven to flout.)_

 

When they ride out from trees frozen in many-armed sentinels, beardy with silver moss, and halt, facing each other like pieces on the board (really, dear reader, it isn’t such a doss) moated by swift-raging water and by those solid pines, silent and still in that single moment. And when the sign is given, they uncoil into movement and the game’s begun, (dear reader, you must understand - enjoyment, atonement!) Suddenly too fast, too much like the changing and crashing of waves upon silver sand for fear to charge their still, ghostly hearts and 'mate them with terror’s ghastly hand.

 

_When they ride out under stars falling through the darkness, in this spectral land of green and black and silver, the shout goes up: “Ride on! Ride on!”_

_(For, dear reader, it must be said: they have nothing else to pin their hopes upon.)_

 

When they ride out under stars shining, named and unnamed, radiant and burning, they ride to win, chasing, charging, turning, halting, tearing the turf into facial mud, striking at a head greyed by earth and shadow, feeling on their bodies the sting of the Night Wind, on skin greying and sallow.

 

Their only spectators are those swaying black pines, their only companions the black shadows across the grass, and the only light from guardian moon and fiery stars.

 

_When they ride out under stars burning cold in winter, in this eerie land of green and black and silver, the cry goes up: “Ride out! Ride out!”_

_(For, dear reader, it must be understood, there is life to flout.)_

 

* * *

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thoughts / reviews etc are much appreciated.


End file.
